The Frost Report

The atmosphere between Marcus and I is still 124 degrees below zero. In a bid to inject the situation with some humour, I went out yesterday morning and bought him a range of frozen fruits as a kind of ironic olive branch. But by the time I’d returned from lunch with Mum & Dad, the fruits were still languishing, defrosted and mushy, on the kitchen counter. Given Marcus’ preoccupation with fruity symbols I wagered this could mean one of two things;

1) that he was continuing to snub me by ignoring my peace gesture or
2) the defrosted and mushy fruits were already an accurate artistic representation of our emotional cold war thaw so no more work was needed.

Ten minutes later I was like, whatever, I can do symbols too. So I added tequila and whizzed said frozen fruits into a giant margherita.

It turns out that mushed relationship margheritas were very good at numbing the memories of that day’s slightly disturbing lunch with the parents:

Mum greeted me in peasant style dress which was criminally short for a woman of her age.

“Kate Moss.” She whispered, as if the Munroes might be listening.

“What about her? Is she coming for lunch too?” I said, still standing on the doorstep.

“No, silly billy. Honestly, call yourself an employee of fashion.”

“I try not to.”

“Her new range. It’s here. On little old me. A whole 12 days before it’s official release on 21st May. Your old Mum, cutting a dash with the high priestess of fashion.”
I made some encouraging noises and headed for the kitchen.

“Well, don’t you want to know how I got my beady little hands on it?” She called after me.

“Not really” I replied absently. If there’s one thing I could care less about it’s the Kate Moss for Top Shop range. I generally avoid anything above the knee, that cinches in the waist, exposes the shoulders and emphasises any breadth of any kind i.e the entire Kate Moss for Top Shop range. I like clothes that keep me in the slim rather than chunky bit of the carthorse category.

Mum ignored me for the third time during our conversation and continued to tell me in one long sentence about how she’d visited a Milton Keynes boutique to buy a hat for the Munroes’ daughter’s wedding, that it would have been much better of course if she had been buying a hat for her own daughter’s wedding but that it wasn’t looking very likely now was it, anyway Mr Dalgleish with his Grand Canaria tan and red silk cravat told her how very attractive and stylish she was and how she should be showing off her shapely legs and that Kate Moss for TopShop would suit her frame very well and he could do her a favour, no strings.

“Sounds like he’s trying to get fresh with you Mum. Have you told Dad?”

“Your father wouldn’t bat an eyelid if I turned into a hussy at one of those go go clubs.”

I went outside and spoke to Dad from the edge of his wood (I don’t have access, it’s like consecrated ground)

“Did you know Mum was being chatted up by a man in town?” I asked.

“Yes, so she keeps saying. Bought her some Kate Mould stuff.”

“Kate Moss. Anyway, shouldn’t you do something? You know, take her up west, treat her nice, dinner and a dance? If you’re not careful, Mr Dalgleish will steal your wife.”

“You mother’s only kicking up because I’ve called a stop on the barn conversion. I can’t be seen to be converting a barn during an economic crisis. I’ve already had to fire two junior accountants. Your mother’s only sulking because she thinks we’re going to fall behind the Munroes.”

“Right, so you’re just going to ignore her?” I said shortly.

“That’s right”.

So when I got home that night and saw that Marcus had ignored my frozen fruits, I scrawled a note and left it on his easel. It said. “Here is my Dad’s telephone number. You two should go bowling some time”.